Living with a fellow writer has its advantages: As deadline approaches, you can fact-check[9] in his (much more detailed) diary. He’s also more likely to understand when you say: “Sorry, I didn’t make dinner tonight: There was an election.”
Often my husband worked in the car, notebook balanced on the dashboard[10]. Once, in a particularly tense situation in a Southern African country, we approached a police roadblock. This was at a time when writers were viewed with distrust. With horror, I realized a scribbled radio script was in full view.[11]
I ate it. It was a small piece of paper, not much bigger than a shopping receipt. I can now truthfully say I have swallowed the news whole.
Internet coverage is sporadic[12] here in Zimbabwe. These days, broadband is gaining ground in the capital, Harare, but it can cost hundreds of dollars to install.[13]
For some time, we relied on an antiquated[14] connection through a phone line. Mostly it worked, except when marauding vervet monkeys disconnected the wires.[15]
Fortunately, we had friends who put up with us appearing regularly with flash drives, dictaphones, and anguished cries of, “The Internet’s not working!”[16]
We signed up excitedly when wireless communication was finally introduced, but there was one problem: The only place with a strong cellphone signal in the tin-roofed[17] cottage we lived in was the bathroom.
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